


Target Practice

by katineto (mistalagan)



Series: YoI One-Shots [4]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Gen, I don't think it has redeeming properties, Torture, Yuuri is mentioned but not actually in the fic, uhh this is basically just victor whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-10-14 07:12:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17504003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistalagan/pseuds/katineto
Summary: “I don’t know,” the creature slurs, letting its head loll to one side. Its grey, filthy, matted hair falls limply in its face. “Have you tried Vegas? Lotsa pretty pole dancers in Vegas.”Dougherty looks down at the file that lays flat on the grey metal desk. The thing in front of him barely resembles its photograph anymore—they’d pulled the snapshot from a magazine, of all places. What an embarrassment it had been to find one of these beasts right in front of their noses, running all over the world, masquerading as a figure skater.(Then again, who knows if Viktor Nikiforov, God rest his soul, ever really existed?)“One more chance,” he says, clicking his pen, “Tell us where Eros is hiding, and we’ll make it quick for you. I know you know.”(prompt: hurt protecting someone else, used for target practice)





	Target Practice

“I don’t know,” the creature slurs, letting its head loll to one side. Its grey, filthy, matted hair falls limply in its face. “Have you tried Vegas? Lotsa pretty pole dancers in Vegas.” 

The corners of Agent Mark Dougherty’s mouth twitch up in a forced grimace. “I can take it you aren’t going to be helpful today.”

Its eyes linger on something past him, then abruptly snap to his. It winks with one swollen eyelid, grinning with sharp white teeth. “I’m always eager to help out my fans, Agent.”

Dougherty looks down at the file that lays flat on the grey metal desk. The thing in front of him barely resembles its photograph anymore—they’d pulled the snapshot from a magazine, of all places. What an embarrassment it had been to find one of these beasts right in front of their noses, running all over the world, masquerading as a _figure skater._  

(Then again, who knows if Viktor Nikiforov, God rest his soul, ever really existed?)

“One more chance,” he says, clicking his pen, “Tell us where Eros is hiding, and we’ll make it quick for you. I know you know.”

Cloven hooves scrape on the concrete floor. The creature’s wings, bound tightly behind him, slump. “You got me, Agent,” it says, “I do know one thing. You know what it is?” It hacks out a rattling laugh. “You’ll never get your filthy hands on my Yuuri.”

Dougherty sighs. “Slow and painful it is, then.” He raps on the door, one-two-three. “Pin this up in the yard,” he says. “Give it to the firsties for their practical.”

—

Dougherty’s there for the test, on the off chance the thing changes its mind. It’s happened before: they’ll blurt out their whole life stories, spill on whatever passes for family between them, beg and plead and offer any information they have. They’re not going to stop the evaluation, of course—wouldn’t be fair to the other trainees—but it’s valuable to have someone there recording. 

The practice yard is semi-indoors, covered by a large canvas roof. Not as well protected as the underground cells, but what can you do? Dougherty settles down on a folding metal chair and gets out his phone. He’s not allowed internet out here, but he can play Puzzle Ball Mania without it.

The creature is pinned up to the far wall, limbs and wings spread wide. Like a proper Vitruvian man, with a few extra bits. Back in the day, it would have been unrestrained in a large cage, but after a nasty incident involving several dead trainees and a near escape, they’ve kept their subjects chained at all times. In Dougherty’s opinion, they’ve gone soft—someone who can’t subdue a monster in a controlled environment will never make it out in the field. Kids these days rely too much on their fancy tech.

Agent Chan shuffles into the yard with stacks of paper and her customary thermos. Rumor has it she drinks her coffee black as night and laces it with holy water, but Dougherty’s seen her Starbucks order. The holy water part might be true; it’s mildly toxic and has a nasty, soapy aftertaste, but with the amount of flavored syrup they dump into that stuff you’d be hard pressed to notice.

Chan dumps her stuff on the folding table and glances at him. “Oh, one of yours?” she asks, before turning to look the thing up and down herself. “Not a talker, hmm? Seemed so chatty in his interviews.”

Dougherty snorts. “You watched its interviews?”

“Some of them.” She straightens the folder of blank test forms in front of her. “My daughter was heartbroken.”

“Big skating fan?”

“Big _romance_ fan,” she corrects. “Watch out or we’ll have hordes of teenage girls trying to sell their souls, just like Katsuki.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Dougherty shrugs, and goes back to his game. He doesn’t bother to tell her their current working theory: Katsuki—Eros—was a demon from the get-go, not just a naïve, sympathetic victim.

Pretty soon the first trainee walks into the yard, eyes flicking nervously between Chan and the monster. “Name?” she asks, pen poised.

“Ben Brigham,” he states. “Ma’am.”

“What is holy water, and what are its properties?”

He goes off into his clearly memorized spiel—“Contrary to popular belief, holy water isn’t water at all, and its manufacture does not require the blessing of a holy man. It’s a chemical solution with components—“ and Dougherty tunes him out. He’d memorized the same thing once upon a time. Chan’s pen scratches on the page.

Eventually, the trainee trails off. “Is that all?” she asks; Dougherty can practically feel the uncertainty radiating from the kid. After a moment of silence, she nods. “Indicate on the subject where the left dactylopatagium brevis is.”

They get to use laser pointers now, but back in his day, you had to poke at a mobile monster with a stick.

“Very well.” There’s a heavy thump as Chan presumably dumps a box of assorted parts in front of him. “Choose the proper ammunition, reassemble and load your preferred weapon. You have three attempts to hit the region indicated. Then you will unload and field strip the weapon. You will be timed. Do you have any questions?” A pause. “Good.”

The kid’s reasonably fast—he should be, it’s not rocket science, just picking Legos out of a box and putting them together—but he rushes to get the shots in, and it shows. The first shot goes wide; the second hits bone, and there’s a crack followed by a sharp yelp from the demon.

The kid pauses.

“You hesitate in action, you’re dead. He’s not human,” Chan snaps. “One more.”

Dougherty looks up; the kid’s trembling slightly. Figures. But he’s more careful this time, lining up his shot, and the projectile flies true. Right into the uppermost membrane of the wing, where it breaks and embeds itself in the skin. 

The creature howls. Holy water, already splattered across the wing from the previous shot, drips its corrosive way downwards. Where it goes, it leaves spidery tracks of burnt meat, radiating black and red out from the water’s trail. 

“And _strip it_ ,” Chan urges the kid on, breaking him out of his frozen state and back into reality.

When he’s gone, Dougherty sighs. “This what they’re like now?”

“Give him a break,” she says, “Most of these guys, it’s their first time.” 

“And I’m sure you like relieving them of that particular virginity,” he comments, prompting her to roll her eyes. 

“Shut up, Dougherty,” she says. In the background, the demon pants harshly, but doesn’t say a word.

There’s twenty-odd trainees and it’s one of the more boring stretches of his life, even given all the times he’s had to hurry up and wait in this job. Something about hearing the same thing over and over again. Just like diversity training.

The monster screams, cries, whimpers, and makes various other pathetic little noises. It’s not until about halfway through—maybe ninety minutes—when he starts to mutter, and Dougherty holds up a hand to stop the next trainee from coming in. He heaves himself off his chair with a sigh, padding over to where the beast is pinned. 

It’s utterly ruined already—wings riddled with holes, rivulets of mixed blood and holy water trickling down to the floor, leaving sizzling flesh in their wake. Its voice is faint, raspy, and halting, and its intonation is flat. “Oh angel of god,” it mutters in Russian, eyes closed, “My holy guardian, given to me from heaven, enlighten me this day and save me from all evil…”

Dougherty raps firmly on the wall, and it jerks. Its eyes open to a thin slit of icy blue.

“Got something to say?” he asks. 

It stares at him for several long seconds, and then its eyes slip shut again. “Oh angel of god,” it starts over, “My holy guardian…”

Dougherty shakes his head and stalks back to the other side of the yard. Chan looks at him. “Something interesting?” she asks.

“It’s just taunting us,” he says. “Keep going.”

—

It keeps up its monotonous droning throughout the rest of the exam, stopping only to suck in deep, shuddering breaths and occasionally sob. No luck on saying anything useful, though. Oh well; they’ll toss it back in its cell for a while, let it stew, then pull it out again to see if it feels more chatty.

They always break down, eventually. They don’t have the moral fortitude to choose not to save their own skins; all Dougherty’s got to do is make sure the thing’s more scared of him than it is of whatever else is out there.

Chan blows out a tired sigh as she scratches off the notes for the last trainee and drops her pen. “Done?” Dougherty asks.

“Yeah, finally,” she says, then looks up with a frown as another figure makes its way into the yard. “Or…one more?”

It’s some blond kid with a cocky air. He’s in the firstie uniform, though, so when he saunters up Dougherty thinks he’s just mixed up his exam time or something.

“Name?” Chan asks, and the kid doesn’t answer, which is Dougherty’s first clue that something is terribly wrong. 

His second clue is Chan’s broken neck and ragdoll body, thrown over the table like she weighs nothing.

He scrambles for his pistol, reaching for his watch to sound the alarm at the same time. The kid moves like a fucking wildcat, though, fast as lightning, and Dougherty’s got the wind knocked out of him before he can blink. “ _Fuck,_ _”_ he snarls, jabbing out his elbow to try and put space between them. It feels like hitting solid rock. He gets a hand at his neck for his troubles, and the kid’s lithe body—which shouldn’t weigh as much as it does—driving him down to the ground. He struggles, gets a leg over and around—he can try to flip their positions—but the hand that’s not choking him gets over his face, gouging at the soft tissue.

The last thing Agent Dougherty sees is the suggestion of feathers, and a radiant, terrible light, burning into his eyes and burrowing through his skull as he screams.

He’s left writhing on the ground, hands grasping at the dirt. 

“You look like shit, old man,” he hears distantly, “Come on, piggy’s waiting for you.”

There’s a gust of wind, the flap of wings, and then he’s alone.


End file.
